


Moonsea

by Tyranno



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Ghost romance, Gothic imagery, M/M, Regret, ghost!damen, some disturbing imagery, some gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 21:52:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16463018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: "Your Highness, I don't think he'll survive another round.""I think he will. Why don't we make a wager?" Laurent spoke, voice cold and flat, "A gold coin says he lives. If you want to win it from me, you'll have to exert yourself."This time, Laurent loses that bet.





	Moonsea

**Author's Note:**

> **Happy Halloween!! I thought it might be fun to have a tree house of horror style all hallow’s eve special for everyone’s favourite morally dubious m/m prince/slave story :^)**
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> **Special thanks to the wonderful, the magical, veretianblue... i love you and owe you my life <3**
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> **Are you sitting comfortably? I’ll begin….!**

 

 

_Three conditions are necessary for Penance: contrition, which is sorrow for sin, together with a purpose of amendment; confession of sins without any omission; and satisfaction by means of good works._  
_-Thomas Aquinas_

x

x

x

x 

 

“How many stripes?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Prince Laurent said, flippantly. “I’m sure I’ll decide eventually. You can begin.”

The man glanced at Damianos, who was strapped to the cross. While the slave’s front was marred, an old knife wound in his upper chest and a faded slice across his hip, his back was a smooth spread of sliding muscles and freckled skin. The man’s bare, dark back was naked and unblemished.

Laurent savoured the sight.

The whip master rolled his shoulder and the whip slid through the shallow dust like a dark snake, rearing up as the man threw his arm forward. The whip cracked against Damianos’ back.

Blood dribbled down Damianos’ browned back. The slave recoiled from the blow, a breath knocked out of him. For a second, Laurent caught a glimpse of his back with just the first welt, thick and ruby-red, striking as a slit throat.

Then the whip came again. And again. And again. Again. Again. Again. Again.

Laurent felt the blows ricochet around his skull. It was rhythmic, like a metronome. The strikes came over and over. Laurent had a strange feeling. He was coming away from himself. It was as if he was unwinding, like a tugged thread.

Laurent saw himself raise a hand, but it was as if someone else had moved it.

The man stopped. The whip stilled in the earth, slick with blood.

The courtyard was very quiet.

Damianos shivered. Every inch of his back had been cut open in long slices. Blood flowed freely down his spine, dripping steadily onto the dust. A soft whimper escaped him and his knees shook.

Laurent blinked, very quickly, and then frowned. “I think I stopped us too soon,” he said, and his voice sounded dull to his own ears, “Again.”

The whip master hesitated, turning the handle of his whip in his hands, “Your Highness, I don’t think he’ll survive another round.”

“I think he will. Why don’t we make a wager?” Laurent spoke, voice cold and flat, “A gold coin says he lives. If you want to win it from me, you’ll have to exert yourself.”

The whip master hesitated before following the Prince’s orders.

The first renewed blow drew an animal noise from Damianos, sharp and desperate. Laurent saw his back shift, as if he was trying to rise. The next blow knocked him back down.

It seemed to go on for hours. The blows blended together.

Each time the whip master raised his arm, the whip brought something flying back with it, blood splattering the earth, congealed flesh mixing with dust. Another blow cut across his raw back. If Laurent strained his eyes, he could see the first chips of white vertebrae surfacing from his flesh.

It was only because Laurent was watching so closely that he saw the killing blow the moment it happened.

The blow struck too high—the whip hit the nape of Damianos’ neck, carving through his scalp. His throat slammed into the front of the cross. Something ruptured.

Before he could even process it, Laurent had stepped forward, raising a pale hand.

The man tossed the handle of the whip like it had burned him. He was faster than Laurent, darting across the courtyard and unbinding the slave. His hands were slicked and dark.

Damianos convulsed and slipped out the man’s grip. Dust coated his raw back. He shook, spine arching, mouth open as if to cry out. Only blood came out. He convulsed again, twisting like a snake, scarlet flooding his front as it spilled over his chin.

Laurent stood above him, watching. His mind was blank.

Damianos thrashed. Dust rose above him. He gargled, coughing up more and more, jerking as if someone had put a fish-hook in his stomach and was yanking it. As if his body was rejecting his blood, turning itself inside out.

He curled in the earth, chest heaving, blood coming in vomits. His eyes were wide and deep black, his nose and mouth violent red.

And then he was still.

* * *

 

 

_**One, Contrition.** _

 

 

* * *

 

Some of the courtiers, drawn by the noise, had summoned Paschal, Laurent’s physician. But by the time he arrived there was nothing he could do. Paschal lifted Damianos’ upper-body from the earth, gentle as if he was still alive, and rested him on a white bed-sheet.

Laurent stood over him, eyes unfocused.

Damianos’ crumpled body had scared the courtiers away from the courtyard and pressed them against the walls. Everyone spoke in whispered and cast fearful glances at the pale figure of the prince standing over the slave’s body.

Paschal brushed the bloody hair from Damianos’ face and closed the man’s eyes. He lifted his large, dark hands and put one on his sternum and rested the other on top of it, as if he was at peace. With a tug, he lifted the corner of the white sheet and pulled it over him. The moment the fabric touched him, it started to sink, dark stains seeping through.

Laurent was hardly even breathing.

Paschal knelt for a long while by the slave’s side. He rubbed his thin, wrinkled eyelids.

Laurent shifted back, and his ankle twinged. The pain startled him. He swallowed thickly and turned on his heel and stalked out.

The courtiers shied away, avoiding his gaze. Even the guards shifted away from him as he passed, as if he carried death with him. He walked alone, footsteps echoing around the empty stone hallways.

It felt like Laurent’s chest was too small. It felt like Laurent’s insides had been scooped out and he was left with only a deep, painful emptiness.

As he walked, the pain in his ankle prickled. He must have sprained it somehow, but he didn’t remember when. He kicked his leg out, shaking it.

“Prince Laurent,” Paschal called.

Laurent stopped in his tracks. He considered walking away—he wouldn’t be followed. But then what? He couldn’t walk out of the palace, out of all of this, like he wanted to. He turned.

Paschal stopped. The shadows over his deep-set eyes looked even darker than usual. “The servants want to know what sort of grave you desire the slave to be placed in,” Paschal said, rubbing his knuckles. “The only graves we have on the premises are for royals, which of course is inappropriate, but the town’s graves are a mixture of places and prices. It would be good to bury him as soon as possible—having an unburied body is terrible luck.”

“Don’t bury him,” Laurent said suddenly.

Paschal blinked, eyes refocusing on Laurent’s face. He was silent for a moment, then, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Laurent said, venomously, “I will not have him buried. Wrap him and throw him in the nearest river.”

Paschal said nothing for the longest time. It was his openness that had lead him to disfavour in court, despite his talents for medicine. He had worn his heart on his sleeve all throughout Laurent’s childhood, while he dealt with the wounded, cast-off boys from the Regent, and his grimness had been a balm on Laurent’s mind, a reminder that what happened to him was not normal, not justified.

Laurent saw the man’s heart now. He saw the furrowed eyebrows, the look in his old eyes. Paschal was disgusted by him.

“As you wish,” Paschal said, dully, “Your Highness.”

Laurent nodded and dismissed him. Paschal turned before Laurent had even finished the motion, pacing back down the hallway. Laurent shifted from foot to foot as his ankle twinged painfully. He should have had Paschal take a look at it before dismissing him. He was in no mood to call him back.

Hobbling to the nearest step, Laurent sat down heavily. He lifted his leg to rest his foot next to him and removed his shoe and pulled at the laces at the bottom of his calf. He rolled the velvety fabric up, revealing a wealth of pale skin.

A mottled, dark purple bruise was swollen into the skin around his ankle. It looked as if it had been developing for days; but this was the first time he had felt it. The skin was tender and yellowed at the edges, and weeping, broken where the skin stretched straight over bone.

It was in the shape of a hand.

 

*

 

The Regent would not return from Chastillon for seven days. Laurent was under no illusions that his uncle would receive the death of a prized slave well, especially one which had been sent from a country whose relations with Vere were already strained.

Even before the council was summoned, Laurent knew the courtiers did not receive the news well. Even the few nobles Laurent had carefully cajoled to his side had been turned away by it. Perhaps the Regent should even reward him for killing Damianos—he had certainly made the task of isolating Laurent from the court far easier.

Laurent was not interested in damage control. He could make up lies about Damianos, tell people the slave had laid a hand on him, spread lies that the man had tried to force himself on Laurent—but he doubted many would even sympathise. Most of them wanted to lay their own hands on Laurent.

Instead, Laurent walked around as if in a dream.

He returned to his own chambers and undressed half of the way before stilling. He left his clothes half- on, not even removing his boots, and lay down on top of his bed sheets, staring up at the ceiling.

There would be no dishonesty this time. No events Laurent would have told different, no left out details or outright lies. Laurent had whipped an innocent man to death for an errant touch in the bath. The Regent could be entirely honest about that.

 

*

 

Laurent woke up when he stopped breathing.

Panic flooded his system and he kicked out, legs tangling with the bed sheets. His mouth gaped and gaped and he tossed his head—but the blockage was further down, somewhere deep in his throat. The lamplight swam in his wet eyes.

Laurent clawed his neck. The back of his mouth was slick with something sour, like bile. He thrashed, trying to dislodge it. White stars flashed in his eyes. His cheeks were hot and his eyes bulged.

Something icy flooded into his mouth. It tasted worse than Laurent could understand. He vomited onto the bed, clawing at his mouth like he could drag the liquid out faster. He still couldn’t breathe, thick, putrid liquid flooding his airway.

The liquid was thick and almost solid. It was sticky.

Finally, enough was cleared for Laurent to take a gasping breath. He breathed raggedly, spitting the last clumps of liquid from his mouth. His teeth and tongue were coated in it. More dribbled from his nose.

Laurent wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. His jaw quivered. He sat on the bed for a moment, trying to quell the wild fear that had flooded his system. He blinked, hands shaking as he rubbed his sternum.

By then, his eyes had gotten used to the dark. He was alone; which meant that an attempt on his life was unlikely. Perhaps he had gotten sick somehow, and this was just another unpleasant problem he had to deal with.

Laurent eased himself up from the bed. His head swam.

He crossed slowly to the lamp bracket on the wall and reached out to lift it off. He paused.

Black coated his hands, thick as drying ink, lumpy in places. Laurent lifted the lamp and held it closer to his arm to inspect it. The liquid shone a dull red.

Laurent swallowed thickly and winced as the taste in his mouth was renewed. It tasted of rot, of iron. It tasted of old blood.

The lamplight shook in his hands. He crossed to the bed.

The shadows parted and Laurent saw the scuffed dark stains, his handprints, the glut of liquid he had expelled. All shone deep maroon, like oiled mahogany, a sheen of wine red.

A movement drew Laurent’s eye.

He glanced up, looking across the bed, to the deep shadows on the other side of the room—

—and into the eyes of Damianos.

Laurent dropped the lamp.

The oil chamber cracked open as it hit the bed and the flame roared into life, spreading fast. The flash of white blinded Laurent and he stumbled back, tripping over his wounded ankle and crashing to the floor. Crackles and pops pounded in his ears.

Guards burst through his door, spilling into his chambers. They shouted something, one of them touched his shoulder while they others charged around, falling into dressers in their haste.

The entire bed and its canopy were on fire now, the yellow flames licking the ceilings, ash spreading across the tiles. The fire threw Laurent’s room into sharp relief, revealing every inch of it, the light spinning and gliding. Damianos was not there.

Laurent breathed shallowly. His head felt like it was filled with water, and his thoughts swam around, strange and distorted. He lifted his hand and stared down at it. It was clean, white and unblemished.

 

*

 

When the Regent heard the news he called a council before he had even reached Arles. He entered still dressed in riding leathers, hair unbrushed and unwashed—all but riding his horse into the council chambers. No doubt he was thrilled to have a final, killing blow for Laurent’s reputation.

In any other situation, he would have been tasting the familiar bite of indignity he felt when his uncle undermined him, the relentless burning anger for which there was never any outlet; but Laurent felt strangely detached from it all, as if it were happening to someone else.

The Regent talked for hours, of the Akielos-Vere treaty, the barbaric practice of whipping, the irresponsibility of Laurent’s actions. He brought up Laurent’s apparently long history of irritability, his irrational nature, his insolence.

Laurent watched it all, dull-eyed.

After it was all over, Laurent could feel the lingering distaste in the air. Every noble had been soured by this in some way. He could feel their eyes on him. He was the first to leave, even before the guards which were supposed to escort him out.

That night, Laurent was not woken up by coughing up blood. For that to happen, he would have had to sleep.

 

*

 

Laurent only noticed it gradually.

The moment it came to the forefront of his mind, he stopped in his tracks, ears straining. He listened. All he could hear was the wind in the courtyard trees, the distant chatter in the halls, the trickle of water somewhere. Nothing of consequence.

Laurent took a few more steps, his heeled boots clicking on the stone. He stopped again, just as suddenly. The sound was irritating, like the buzzing of an insect; he could ignore it for hours, but the moment it came to his immediate attention, it became close to unbearable.

Laurent walked a couple paces more and heard it again—his footfall, followed a fraction of a second later by another’s.

When he walked, he heard two sets of footsteps.

Laurent stared at his shoes. He lifted his gaze and glanced around the courtyard path. It was empty. Anybody who was following his footsteps so intimately would have to be close enough to see his every movement and quick enough to mimic him, and there was nobody near enough. Unbidden, his thoughts tugged back to the night he had woken up unable to breathe...

Perhaps a simpler explanation was he was going mad. He had hardly gotten more than two hours’ sleep at a maximum each night since the council meeting.

Laurent took another step and heard the echo, slightly later than usual.

There was nobody around, he thought as he stopped. There would be no harm in it.

Laurent kept his feet rooted in the stone and turned around, staring at the empty pathway behind him, “Damen, if you’re there...”

“Here.”

Laurent spun around.

The dead man stood a pace away from him, real and solid as the stone behind him. A darkness shadowed his features and the edges of him seemed to stand out too sharply against the soft morning light. His face and chest were splattered with scarlet, as bright as when he had curled in the courtyard all those weeks ago, drowning in his own blood.

Laurent could only stare.

Damianos stared back, eyes black. He cut an impressive silhouette, body as trained and powerful in death as in life. He exuded danger.

“Laurent,” Damianos said, rolling the word around his red mouth.

“That's Prince to you, barbarian,” Laurent snapped, heart hammering, “if you think you can just—”

The air cracked.

Laurent recoiled, pain slicing through both his palms.

Cradling both his hands close to his chest, Laurent felt fear spiking in his heart. His palms burned. The slice of pain had came in one long stripe. He knew, somehow, that if he unfolded his fingers he would find the red welt of a whip strike.

“Do you think a pathetic wretch like you scares me?” Damianos boomed. His voice was like a roll of thunder, “Do you _honestly_ think there is something you can do to me you haven't already done?!”

Laurent quailed.

“It was revenge, wasn't it?” Damianos asked, but it did not sound like a question. “You knew who I was.”

“How—how long did it take you to figure it out?” Laurent asked, voice small.

“The dead don't sleep, Laurent,” Damianos said. He held his head high, despite the muscle hanging away from the back of his neck. “I had a lot of time to think.”

Laurent breathed evenly, forcing the panic down in his chest, “If you're here to apologise, I don't want to hear it.”

“There is nothing for me to apologise for,” Damianos said. His gaze was cold.

“Of course you think that,” Laurent spat, the anger making him brave, “You think—”

“He was buried will full ceremony after Marlas, here in your country,” Damianos spoke over him, “I sacrificed a bull in Ios. I lit the fires.”

“You celebrated,” Laurent said.

“The bull’s sacrifice was in his honour,” Damianos said, “He was an honourable opponent.”

Laurent’s gaze was fixed on those deep, black eyes. Damianos looked down at him, like he was something small and unpleasant.

A terrible thought entered Laurent’s head, “Is he—?”

“Gone,” Damianos said, “he rests with your father now. He died well, defending his country.”

Laurent’s heart lurched. He turned his head away, chest cold, “Dead is dead.”

Damianos scoffed, “Stop pretending not to understand me. You know I would have given anything to die as he did.”

Laurent turned back to look at him, to say something else, but Damianos was gone. Laurent glanced around the courtyard, but it was still empty. There was only him, the shifting trees and the distant sound of a pet’s laughter.

 

*

 

Where before Laurent walked with purpose, with a mind to how he appeared and how he was seen, now Laurent only wandered. He walked long into the night, not seeing the point of returning to his new bed and ashy ceiling, to chase sleep which wouldn’t come.

He slept wherever he ended up, on reclining sofas or courtyard benches. The only thing that stopped his uncle from devising some simple death for him while he slept, unguarded, was likely that it was too easy. His uncle liked to hunt.

He saw the other Akielon slaves sometimes, huddled close behind their masters. They were starkly different from court pets, even though some pets shared their colouring, because a slave's back was always bowed, head lowered, sweet in their obedience. A court pet was a rowdy, nagging thing.

And when Laurent came closer, he saw other differences. Court pets had bites, love marks on their long throats, yet slaves had burns on the insides of their thighs, scars on their wrists.

Laurent did not interrupt them. He simply kept walking.

 

*

 

Laurent's eyes fluttered open.

He turned and glanced out of the window. It was rare for him to sleep in his bed. He could see the first kiss of orange dawn surfacing through the tar-coloured night.

The bed was warm and his covers soft. He could feel sleep still tugging at him, soft and tempting. It was hard to figure out what had woken him.

Laurent pushed himself up, silk covers pooling in his lap.

Damianos sat at the end of his bed.

It was all Laurent could do not to jump. His muscles locked, spine tense.

Damianos only watched him with dark eyes. His presence kept Laurent locked in place, like a loaded crossbow.

“You again,” Laurent breathed.

“Me again,” Damianos agreed.

With a great effort, Laurent untensed his muscles enough to pull his bedsheets straight. He had the odd impulse to pull the covers up to his shoulders to hide his night dress, as if he was a young maiden.

“What do you want?” Laurent asked, “What are you trying to achieve with all this?”

Damianos smiled without warmth. “And people talk as if you are quick witted.”

“You're haunting me,” Laurent said, “This is revenge, isn't it?”

Damianos’ smile faded. His dark eyebrows drew together, but he said nothing.

“What do you want?” Laurent asked again, desperately.

“I want to be alive again,” Damianos said, “I want you not to have crushed my throat.”

Laurent grimaced, heart pounding, “Is there something I can do? Something I can give you?”

“ _Give_ me?” Damianos echoed, incredulously.

Laurent shrunk back.

Damianos turned his head away, casting his dark eyes over the Prince's chambers. When his head turned, the split skin of his neck peeled away a little, revealing the white cogs of his spine. It was as bloodless as an anatomical drawing.

“I thought of approaching your uncle and appearing to him, but I saw how he kept his quarters. The boys he keeps there. The rot in your family spreads from root to leaf,” Damianos said, head still turned away. “I will not work with a man who keeps a catamite. Not even to torture you.”

The tone was strangely tender. It was as if Damianos was confessing something delicate.

“Thank you,” Laurent said.

“Do not thank me.”

Laurent bunched his hands into the fabric of his sheets, the silk sliding against his skin. It was as smooth as water.

Damianos turned his gaze back to him. The man had been handsome in life. His cheekbones were broad and flat, his skin a soft pale brown. His hair, that which was not plastered to his head, curled black.

“There must be something I can do,” Laurent said quietly, as if whispering a prayer.

“I think that should be obvious by now,” Damianos said.

Laurent said nothing.

The dead man leaned towards him. He smelled faintly of rot. His dark eyes were speckled with red, where the vessels had burst as he suffocated.

“Appease me,” he said.

 

*

 

It was, in the end, obvious what Damianos wanted.

The slaves that had come with the disguised Prince from Akielos were being mistreated. That much was clear to all members of the court. Govart practically dragged a blonde one around on a leash wherever he went.

Torveld of Patras could be persuaded to request that the Akielon slaves went with him to Bazal. Laurent simply had to seed the idea in his head, over a few meetings where he talked airily about current events and the upcoming trade deal.

It almost felt good to be back in the political web of the court. He had been ignoring it for weeks and being re-immersed woke him up a little, like washing his face with cold water.

Patras was a similar culture to Akielos. There, the slaves’ fathomless obedience would be celebrated, not abused.

Laurent did not hear from Damianos that night, or the night after that. His footsteps were singular, his body collected no new injuries. Sometimes, he would see a head of dark curls in the corner of his eye and stop in his tracks to stare—but it would be impossible to catch sight of again. There was nothing there.

 

*

 

The hunt rounded off Torveld’s trip.

Laurent had enjoyed the hunt before. It was one of the few things his uncle could not really intrude on—the hunt had its own dominion. The whistle of the wind in his ears and the thunder of a horse beneath him still had his heart racing.

However, this hunt set Laurent’s teeth on edge. It was something he only figured out when the hunt set out, the horses spreading out over the fields.

There was something wrong with Laurent’s mount.

He was riding his brother’s bay mount, with perfectly balanced proportions and long hips made for hunting, but as she broke into a gallop, something about her gait was faltering. She was somewhat unsteady, hoofs catching on the grass.

She was sick.

Laurent kept the reins gripped tightly in his hands.

Ahead of him, the running dogs slipped through the horses’ legs and set off, bounding through the undergrowth and spilling into the forest. The horses fanned out in an arrowhead formation, with the Regent at the front. The formation would change when the bay dogs found the boar, but for now they would simply ride.

Laurent watched the back of the courtiers race ahead. It was too late for him to call it off without making a scene.

Cautiously, he directed his horse to one side, breaking formation but not enough to be suspicious. His horse thundered into the forest, veering so close to the trees at times that Laurent was nearly knocked off.

The courtiers were still too close.

Laurent needed to be away from the hunt when they found the boar. A weak horse would get him killed. Throwing caution to the wind, Laurent turned his shaking horse and directed her towards the thinner part of the forest, away from the bulk of the hunt.

If anyone found his behaviour odd, no one thought it odd enough to call out to him. Laurent directed his horse further into the edges of the forest.

His horse’s sides were unusually hot, already glazed with a sheen of sweat. She shook her head, shaking out her damp mane. Laurent rubbed a hand across her neck.

Laurent couldn’t see the courtiers anymore and pulled his horse into a trot. He couldn’t quite relax. There was something gnawing at him. Someone had poisoned his horse, and there was only one man alive who would have the nerve and reach to do that. Despite himself, despite all of the evidence, he still couldn’t quite believe his uncle would try to have him killed.

The trees here were new and fresher than those deeper in the forest. Less moss clung to their sides. Grass grew between the roots, rather than dark mulch.

Laurent jabbed his horse in the stomach, urging her onwards. He rode into a new clearing, horse kicking up soft earth.

A boar burst from the forest.

Laurent kicked his horse, who lurched into a gallop. Her breathing was ragged and pained. Her hoof caught on a rabbit hole and she pitched forward, throwing him off.

He landed, hard. His shoulder was wrenched to one side, burning with pain. Laurent’s head jerked upwards and he stared at the boar. It was almost too horrible to believe. Had he been less tired, less distracted, he could have noticed it earlier, but there was nothing he could do now.

The boar charged.

It was heavy and ugly, covered with bristling, short black hair. It was shaped like a barrel, weight shaking as it ran. Its hooves tore up grass as it ran and it growled wetly. Its tusks were blunt and chipped but it was strong enough to rip men apart with them. Laurent had seen it happen.

The air cracked.

Suddenly, the boar twisted in mid-stride. Its head was thrown back, a startled noise shaking from it. The boar careened to one side, tossing its head. Its side hit a tree but it kept on its footing, stamping. Blood soaked through bristles.

A whip-mark, long and ruby-red, cut over its snout.

Laurent stared at it.

Another crack of the invisible whip and a mark was carved through the boar’s shoulder. The beast shook and turned, charging through the undergrowth.

Laurent breathed deeply. His horse padded towards him, favouring a foot and whinnying painfully. Laurent glanced through the thick foliage but he saw nobody, no sign of another presence. But he had been there. Laurent could trust his own eyes.

Damianos had saved his life.

Laurent lifted his hands from where they had been buried in ground moss. The earth smelled soft and alive.

Alone, in the silence and security of the forest, Laurent was forced to face what had been lingering in his mind for weeks. Damianos’ words came back to him: _I will not work with a man who keeps a catamite. Not even to torture you._ There was something about that which was hard and uncomfortable and weighed in him like a stone in his stomach. It was the real reason he couldn’t sleep, more than the fear of his uncle’s reprisal, more than the court’s reception of his childish actions, more than regret.

He had killed a good man.

* * *

 

 

 

**_Two, Confession_ **

 

 

* * *

 Damianos was waiting for him when he reached his room. The man stood facing the window. From this direction, Laurent could see all that had been done to him. The flesh was rendered in uneven strips, clumped in places, in other places worn so thin the hint of his ribs poked through. His back was wrecked. There was no other beast but man that killed so clumsily.

Laurent dismissed the guards who had followed him into his chambers. They filtered out without a word. When they were alone, Laurent still found it difficult to speak.

Damianos did not breathe, but when he moved, the remnants of his muscles shifted with him. He looked at Laurent, black eyes betraying nothing.

“Why don't you do it?” Laurent asked.

“Do what?”

“Whip me. You could kill me with that,” Laurent said, “Or you could have simply left me with the boar.”

“What would be the point? The cycle of revenge would only continue,” Damianos sighed, gaze dropping. “There is nothing to be gained from it except death, and... I am quite sick of death.”

Laurent stared at him. He sounded honest, but Laurent still searched his face for some sort of trick, some disguised emotion. There was nothing there, no darkness in him. He only looked tired.

“You are a smarter man than me,” Laurent admitted, quietly.

“Well, that much is obvious,” Damianos’ lips quirked upwards. “And besides, if I had you flogged to death there would just be the two of us, haunting Arles for all eternity, which does sound a _joy_.”

Laurent huffed laughter.

“Oh?” Damianos tilted his head, “I didn’t know you could laugh.”

“It’s an affliction,” Laurent said, dryly.

Damianos nodded, the suggestion of a smile about his features. He paused, eyes flicking to the floor, “Laurent… I did not come here just to check on you. I am close to the veil.”

“The veil?” Laurent echoed, frowning, “You’re moving on?”

“I _can’t_ ,” Damianos said, voice pained. “But… I can hear them. I can hear my mother. I never met her...”

“Queen Egeria,” Laurent frowned.

Damianos nodded, eyes unfocused, “I used to think it was me that killed her, being too big, that I struggled too much, made some mistake. I used to worry she would hate me. Kastor said she would, said she must. But… she doesn’t.”

Laurent was silent.

“There are other voices, Laurent,” Damianos said, head lifting a little as he came back to himself, “Aleron speaks to me.”

“My father?” Laurent paced forwards until he stood in front of the dead Prince, reaching out to shake his shoulders but reluctant to touch him. “What did he say?”

“He accuses your uncle of Regicide.”

Laurent stared up at him. His mouth was open and tried to form words for a long while before he could find his voice again, “Proof? Is there proof?”

Damianos looked at him and his eyebrows drew together. His eyes flicked to the floor.

Laurent’s shoulders sunk. His head bowed.

“I’m sorry,” Damianos said, hands finding Laurent’s shoulders. His palms were icy cold, even through Laurent’s thick riding leathers, “I know how you feel. In this, we are one and the same.”

“So Kastor really did kill Theomedes...” Laurent said, head still bowed. “I suspected as much. How did you figure that out?”

Damianos looked down at him, eyes serious and sharp. His scarlet mouth was a grim line. “There is no keeping secrets from the dead, Laurent.”

 

*

 

The bruise on Laurent’s ankle had healed away completely, leaving no mark of its presence. For weeks it had been healing stubbornly slowly, the colours muddying and spreading with no sign of clearing up completely. The skin had, if anything, gotten more tender, weaker.

Then, it had simply vanished overnight. The skin was pale and firm.

It was as if it had been washed away. As if it had never existed in the first place.

 

*

 

Laurent tasted _chalis_ in his drink.

It was hard to detect, underneath the strength of the wine, a hint of sourness. It tasted slightly salty, a tang that lingered at the back of his tongue. But by then, it was too late. He set his drink unsteadily on his bedside table. There was a rim of undissolved pink inside his goblet.

He could feel it crawl over him. Once he noticed it, it was frighteningly quick. It felt like his brain was slowing. It felt like he was becoming unstuck, detaching from his own body in a way which was sweet and thickly appealing.

Laurent stood up unsteadily. He swayed.

His door opened abruptly. It bounced against the stone wall with a loud clatter.

Laurent could not get himself to be afraid. All he could manage was wary. He raised his head, “May I help you?”

Four guards pushed their way into his chambers. They fixed him with determined looks and unsheathed their swords.

“Well, then.” Laurent reached behind his pillow and drew out a long silver dagger.

The first man rushed at him, which was a mistake. Laurent kicked his sword out of the way and buried his dagger in the man’s throat. He dropped like a stone.

He had lost his weapon. Laurent didn’t have time to regret his actions, ducking under the swing of one of the other men, ceding ground fast.

Laurent snatched his goblet from the bedside table as he paced backwards and tossed it at the nearest guard, using the distraction to kick him. He dropped his sword and Laurent snatched it up, burying it in the throat of the third man.

Two dead, one knocked out, and the fourth advancing on him.

Laurent’s head swam. The drug was starting to prickle all over his skin and he was intensely aware of every layer of clothing he wore and how it scraped and grated on his skin. It felt tight. It felt like he would burst from it.

His back hit the wall.

The man charged.

And stopped. His shoulders went slack and he dropped his sword with a clatter.

A dazed look entered the man’s green eyes. Slowly, slowly, in front of Laurent’s eyes, they darkened—until they were a familiar, rich, deep brown. He moved like a marionette, dropping straight to his knees as if his ankles had given out, and retrieved his sword.

The man stood up again and crossed the room, the tip of his sword screeching against stone. He rounded on his living co-conspirator, and pushed his sword through the other man’s chest.

He held it there for a long moment, until the man stopped making noise.

Then the puppet-man reached down and tugged out Laurent’s long dagger from his friend’s throat and pressed the blade to his own neck.

Laurent watched, wide-eyed, as the man slit his own throat.

He fell, collapsing on top of the other guards, and was still. There was a long, drawn out moment of silence.

“Again...” Laurent breathed. “You saved my life again.”

Damianos stepped out of the shadows. He seemed less solid than usual, crafted from the shadows, there and gone in the changing of the light. He dropped his gaze to the floor and his attention was drawn by the bodies. Blood spread across the floor. The men were very still.

Laurent took a step towards him, “You possessed that man, didn’t you?”

Damianos nodded. He glanced across the room, eyes trailing the whispers of black ash that streaked the ceiling. A pain was working its way across his features.

“What’s wrong?” Laurent asked, taking a step forward.

“A friend,” Damianos said. “He makes the long walk for me, in Akielos.”

Laurent searched his features, “The long walk… That ceremony designed to guide lost spirits away.”

“Yes,” Damianos said. “But I cannot leave.”

Laurent’s breath caught in his throat. He thought of Damianos’ body, wrapped up and dumped in to the river, where it rested unremembered among mulch and fish shit. He felt his heart go cold.

“It was your uncle who ordered this,” Damianos said.

“I know,” Laurent said, “He poisoned my horse too.”

Damianos nodded.

Laurent glanced back at the men slumped against each other. They had been hired men, perhaps with families. And now they were bodies. Meat. Damianos’ words came murmuring back through Laurent’s head: _I am quite sick of death._ Laurent swallowed thickly.

“Damianos,” Laurent said, turning back to the ghost, “I...”

But Damianos was gone.

Laurent closed his mouth. He breathed deeply and sighed through his nose.

 

*

 

Laurent was hurried to the council chambers when his real guards finally arrived. By the look of the councillors, they had been dragged out of bed, eyes bruised with sleeplessness. Only his uncle looked well-rested and fully dressed.

Laurent sat in his designated seat, alone, facing the full span of the Councillors and the Regent. He glanced over to a tapestry which hung near him, of a boar speared under the canopy of a tree heavy with pomegranates.

“I am at a loss as to why I’m being treated under such suspicion,” Laurent drawled, “Again.”

“It is the way those men were discovered that raises the suspicion,” the Regent said, “You could not have left even one of them alive?”

“I apologise,” Laurent said, not sounding sorry at all, “Next time I will hold your interests above the intention of saving my own life.”

“One of them had their throat slit, which suggests you had ample opportunity to leave them alive. Which also suggests you had reason to keep them quiet.” the Regent leaned forward in his seat, “Unless you’re suggesting the man did it himself?”

Laurent said nothing.

“An Akielon knife was discovered in your room, brought by one of the men,” the Regent said. “We have reason to believe you’ve been conspiring with Akielos itself.”

Laurent went still. “Conspiring with _Akielos?_ ”

The venom in his voice was enough to drop the temperature a few degrees. The cold disgust in his voice was more persuasive than any hot outburst could have been. One or two of the councillors shifted in their seat.

“I don’t think he can be accused of that,” Herode said, uncomfortable. “I think, considering his father and brother—”

“No one has more reason to hate Akielos than me,” Laurent said, sharply. “If I had reason to go to war with them, I would revel in it. What sort of alliance would it be if they tried to kill me for it? I will stand no more of this badgering. Decide.”

“Before we decide,” said the Regent, “You will answer this: If your opposition to Akielos is genuine, why do you continually refuse to serve your duty at the border?”

Laurent hesitated.

The Regent leaned back into his chair, managing to keep the satisfaction from his face as he spread his hands over the dark mahogany.

“I—” Laurent’s voice struggled to pass the lump in his throat, “Don’t see why that should be—”

It was Audin who said, “It _is_ a contradiction.”

Laurent’s head jerked up.

He scoured the council members, searching desperately for something. But he saw nothing except disinterest. They were all tired of this, and they didn’t see why Laurent failing to go to the border was a problem for him.

The problem was that Laurent on the road would be a dream come true for his uncle. Finally there was a place he could have Laurent dealt with discreetly, with only whispered rumours left to draw suspicion. War was dangerous. They had already lost one Crown Prince to Akielos, it wasn’t implausible that they would lose another.

Laurent relented. There was no way he could convince them. His uncle had trapped him, once again. “You’re right, uncle. I wouldn’t want anything to throw doubt on my loyalty. I will serve at the border.”

The Regent smiled, “Then it is settled.”

The rest of the council relaxed, some already filtering out of the chambers. Laurent was in no hurry. He watched as the Regent rose, last of the members to leave, and walked down the steps of the gallery. From the side of the room, Nicaise, his fourteen-year-old boy pet, jogged up to him and followed him out.

 

*

 

Nicaise followed the Regent uneasily, although he tried hard to keep the unease out of his posture and expression. Luckily the man wasn’t looking at him but instead looked straight ahead. He had not been able to hide the incriminating evidence yet, so it was still tucked in the back of his open shirt, tied by laces he had carefully threaded through different eyelets. If his master decided to have a… rendezvous, he would be done for.

The Regent paced almost too fast for Nicaise to keep up. The boy was forced to jog.

The silence was unusual, and it was not easing Nicaise’s mind, so he said, “It is good that the Prince has been put in his place.”

The Regent grunted.

It was a very uncommon gesture from him. It sounded… ugly. Nicaise pursed his lips.

Reaching the empty courtyard, the Regent’s eyes scanned the grass. His eyes lingered on the whipping cross. The earth was still dark from the blood of the flayed slave, although it had been weeks since. He managed to drag his eyes away and peered into the dark hallways. Nobody was there.

The Regent stopped, putting a hand on Nicaise’s shoulder. He would not look at him.

“Nicaise...” the Regent said, “You must know I am an evil man.”

Nicaise went very still. His mind raced and his stomach churned. He sensed a trick, but he didn’t know if he should agree or disagree. He didn’t believe the man evil, but he knew others did. Did he want comfort, or would he be angry to be disagreed with?

“You aren’t,” Nicaise said at last, “You aren’t.”

“I am,” the Regent pressed, eyes still averted. He gazed up at the slowly shifting clouds, “You are just too young—far too young to understand yet.”

Nicaise felt a sudden lurch of happiness. _Young_. He was still young enough.

“I want you to ally with Laurent,” The Regent said.

Nicaise nodded, “I feel he has a soft spot for me, so I can manipulate that.”

“No.” The Regent’s eyes flickered to Nicaise’s face but they were redirected before the boy could get a good look at them, “Not like that. He can protect you. I want you to trust him.”

Nicaise frowned. He took a small step forwards, searching the man’s face, “Why are you talking like that? You aren’t going to cast me off, are you?”

The Regent’s brows furrowed, “You don’t want me. I just think—”

“No!” Nicaise said, eyes shining, “No, you said—you said you loved me and—”

“Quiet!” The Regent’s eyes closed.

Nicaise went silent. He blinked, vision swimming. A tear rolled down his cheek, mixing with the sparkling paint under his eyes.

With his eyes still closed, the Regent lifted a hand and pointed to the spot in the courtyard behind where the whipping cross was. “Stand behind there, at least twenty paces away.”

Nicaise nodded, even though the man’s eyes were closed, and padded away, counting his steps. He stood twenty paces away. He looked back at him, arms folded.

The Regent’s eyes opened and he glanced to the whipping cross.

He took a deep breath.

The Regent tugged at the laces that held his shirt closed. One by one, the knots loosened and his heavy velvet shirt sagged on itself, the folds deep and dark. He pulled the last tie open and the shirt slipped from his shoulders. He shrugged it off and it crumpled onto the dust.

Nicaise watched him undress intently.

There was something wrong with the man’s face, Nicaise was sure. Something different. He had looked normal in the council chambers, but something had changed. He was acting strange too, unpredictable and speaking out of character.

“Nicaise, I have one more order,” he said, “And you must follow it.”

“Of course,” Nicaise said.

“You’ll stay over there,” the Regent ordered, “You must promise me you will.”

“I promise,” Nicaise said, earnestly.

The Regent pulled his under-shirt off his shoulders and dropped it on top of his shirt. His chest was bare and slightly sweaty. Nicaise watched him intently as he drew a long silver dagger from his belt.

The Regent buried the blade into his stomach.

Blood came thick and fast, spilling over his stomach and soaking his trousers. He managed to dig the knife out and strike again, burying the dagger into his throat. He sunk to his knees.

Nicaise disobeyed.

The boy darted across the courtyard before he could process it. He dropped to the man’s side, hands shaking. Blood sunk into the earth, slicking the fabric of his trousers to him. He wanted the pull the knife out but knew it would not help. Blood soaked Nicase’s knees.

“No!!” Nicaise screamed.

The Regent gargled, blood choking him up. He cupped his throat around the shaft of the knife. His hands were so red it looked like he wore scarlet gloves.

This close, a part of Nicaise pin pointed what was wrong with the man. His eyes. They were far too dark. As he watched, the Regent’s eyes brightened and changed. They grew bluer, bluer, until they were as blue as a cloudless winter sky. The man twitched, head hard in the earth. And then he was still.

Nicaise stared down at him.

The Regent’s blue eyes were wide open, staring at nothing. His hands were curled like claws. His mouth was open, muscles lax.

Nicaise felt the world crumble around him.

“No, no,” Nicaise breathed, working up the courage to touch him. He patted his cheek lightly. The man’s stubble was gummy with blood. “No, no, no.”

Blood still flowed from the man, but sluggishly. He was still warm, but so still. Nicaise shook his shoulder. His head lolled on his neck.

“Please!” Nicaise begged, tears streaming down his face, “Please, please, please no.”

 

*

 

Laurent spotted the small, bloody footprint before anyone else.

He scuffed it with the toe of his boot until it became an innocuous rust coloured stain on his floor. Then he addressed the guards who were still searching the room and dismissed them all. They filtered out quickly.

When he was alone in the room, Laurent followed the direction of the footprint to his bed. He knelt and pulled up the silk covers up and peered under it.

Nicaise was crouched under his bed, covered in blood. His face was wet and smudged but his eyes were hard.

“The whole palace is looking for you,” Laurent said, “they say you were with him when it happened.”

Nicaise shot him a sharp look.

Laurent stepped back from the bed. Nicaise crawled out from under it, leaving more brown smudges. The blood on him was thick and drying. More than just with him, Nicaise must have been standing right next to him when his throat was slit.

“It wasn't me,” Nicaise said, hotly. He sat on the bed folding his hands on his lap.

“I know,” Laurent said, flatly. “I don't think anyone seriously believes a child could overpower and kill a war veteran. Even if my uncle had gotten a bit fat.”

Nicaise nodded. He bit his lip.

Nicaise looked a state. His hair, usually perfectly brushed, was tangled with his jewellery, and the paint on his face was half gone, flakes of it drifting from his jawline. His eyes were puffy with tears and his cheeks were blotchy with colour.

Laurent knelt in front of him, holding his small hands, crusted with gore.

“You… you said you would protect me,” Nicaise said. “When you were talking to those nobles, you said you would buy my contract if the Regent lost interest. Do you still…?”

“Yes,” Laurent said.

“You have such a way with words,” Nicaise said, keeping his eyes on the floor. “I'm sure you can sort something out with the council.”

The compliment struck Laurent as faintly amusing. It was not something he would have ever heard from Nicaise if the Regent were still alive.

“I will sort something out,” Laurent said. “I promise, Nicaise.”

Nicaise nodded. His chin was wobbling.

Laurent kept his voice low and gentle, “Who else was with you? Who did it really?”

“He did it himself,” Nicaise said, voice strained, “I—I know it sounds bizarre. He must have… gone mad or something. His eyes went black and he started stabbing himself.”

Laurent searched Nicaise's face very carefully. He closed his eyes.

“I'm telling the truth,” Nicaise insisted, voice cracking.

“I know,” Laurent said, “I believe you.”

Nicaise’s breathing became laboured and slightly squeaky, “You don't think—I don't want to—...”

Laurent rose a little and pulled the boy into his arms.

Nicaise smelled of blood and perfume. His hair was dusted with gold filings, which scratched Laurent's cheek as he held him. He was wiry and warm.

It was a mark of how distressed he was that Nicaise accepted the embrace without complaint. Wordlessly, the boy wrapped his arms around Laurent as tightly as he could, sticky hands clawing at the back of Laurent's jacket.

 

*

 

Much later, a temporary truce with the council was sorted out and Nicaise was installed into the room adjacent to Laurent's which hadn't been used for as long as Laurent could remember.

Nicaise slept or at least pretended to convincingly. Laurent peered through the eye hole in the door to check.

Laurent did not feel tired.

He felt strange. He felt like, in an instant, he had been released from his past, as if he was a snake shedding skin that for years had felt itchy, tight and uncomfortable. He felt like he was someone else now, someone new.

He wandered around his chambers. He paced in the hallway outside. He hung on the windowsill, staring out at the evening light.

When the sun sunk below the horizon, Laurent felt that he was not alone.

Damianos stood by the entrance to his chambers, haloed by the lamplight. For a long time, Laurent simply looked at him. He took in every inch of the dead man, as if committing it to memory.

“You killed my uncle,” Laurent said.

Damianos nodded.

“Thank you.”

“I didn't do it for you. I did it for Nicaise,” Damianos said, voice dull. Then he relaxed, the familiar boyish look returning to his features. He rolled his shoulders back, “But you're welcome.”

Laurent smiled. It faded as his eyebrows drew together. He tensed slightly.

“Damianos…” Laurent’s eyes squeezed shut, “Listen, I…”

Damianos waited. His head was lowered but he kept his eyes on Laurent. His hands were curled into fists, as if he was expecting a blow.

“I'm sorry,” Laurent said.

Damianos closed his eyes. He lowered his head, soberly, “I know.”

Laurent felt his heart twist.

Damianos looked past him, to the changing sky outside his window. Night was coming. It was coming in a deep, smooth blue spreading across the sky, snuffing out the smouldering pink dusk.

The room was quiet.

Nicaise's breathing was soft and regular, muffled by the thin wooden door.

“I think we ought to stop putting it off,” Damianos said, softly, as if he was talking to himself.

Laurent's heart was heavy. He felt rooted to the spot, like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

There was a million things Laurent wanted to say. The pressure of them against the back of his throat felt like something physical. He wanted to say: _I’ll miss you_. He wanted to say: _I wish it could have been different._

“It’s a good night for it,” Laurent agreed.

Damianos’ eyes were on him, dark and tender and beautiful. He didn't smile, but his expression eased.

* * *

 

 

 

**_Three, satisfaction by means of good works._ **

 

 

* * *

 

The sky was deep and clouded, blotting out all the stars.

Laurent’s lantern bounced and flickered where it was hooked into the boat’s prow. It cast a thin shell of yellow light, gleaming over the dark water and the wet wood of the hull. The oar in his hands slipped into the water soundlessly, hardly disturbing the surface, and pushed the boat out.

It was very dark. The full moon cast almost no light.

Silence filled the clearing. They were not that far from the Palace, but the night was dark and it promised rain. Even the wildlife had decided not to show.

They cut smoothly through the water. Their wake lapped at the river weeds that broke the surface behind them.

Laurent pushed his oar into the water, straight down. It touched the bottom. The water was cold and left a slight slime on Laurent’s hands. When he moved the oar, he felt something on the riverbed. A small rise, like a sunken log.

He paused.

The boat rocked very gently.

No wind rustled the trees. No animals darted through the dark. The world left him to himself. There was a dead man sitting in his stern, but it was too dark to see him clearly.

“Damianos...” Laurent said, and it was a struggle to get the words out. “Do you think, in another life… where I hadn’t—… where something else had happened, we could… you and I...”

Laurent wanted him to agree. He wanted Damianos to tell him that in some other life, Laurent had not made as many mistakes; that there was another him that was happy, another him where they were friends.

Instead, the man closed his eyes, “No more dreaming of the dead, Laurent.”

His voice was soft, almost kind.

Laurent stared, eyes prickling. The lantern shivered slightly, and what little he could see of Damen became less and less and less. Then it was simply dark he was looking at, without even the suggestion of shape.

Eventually, he reached up to his throat and pulled on the laces there. It was too dark to see them, so he had to do it by touch alone. Veretian clothes were, by design, easier to remove than put on, but he did not rush. It seemed to him that they had all the time in the world.

Laurent’s jacket slipped from his shoulders and he folded it, placing it on the floor of the boat. He pulled off his boots next and set them next to his jacket, followed by his trousers. He sat, dressed only in his under-shirt.

Tomorrow he would he King. But today he was simply a man, as any other.

Laurent lifted himself from the boat and slipped into the water.

It was cold. His chest seized. He let the air in his lungs bubble out as he sunk, turning towards the river bed. Ice prickled over his skin. He couldn’t see. He pushed himself downwards.

His fingers caught wet fabric and he surged forward, scrambling for the bulk of it. Mud slipped through his fingers, but somehow he managed to find the breadth of it, digging his fingers in and yanking upwards.

Laurent’s head spun. He was blind and fumbling. His lungs burned.

The body was plastered to the river bed. Mud had settled over it in the weeks of its resting, sediment over sediment.

Laurent’s feet kicked out and slipped over mud. There was a soft feeling and the body pulled away a little, detaching from the mud. His lungs seized.

Laurent dropped the body and pushed upwards.

Breaking the surface, he gasped. He slicked his hair back from his forehead. The air seemed even colder and he seemed to drag the chill inside of him. The lantern was like a star, impossibly bright.

Laurent descended.

This time, he found the body quickly. He shoved his arms under the gap he had made, his arms between the cold slick of mud and the bloody fabric. The body and Laurent were chest to chest. It was a strange embrace.

He dug his heels into the mud and wrenched himself forward, in the direction of the bank. Laurent’s head broke the surface of the river again, body in his arms.

It was an unbelievable weight. Laurent had always been a good swimmer, but the body was larger than him, weighed down by mud and soaked in water, feet still dragging along the bottom. Laurent’s muscles burned.

The bank rose up beneath Laurent’s feet and he pushed against it, forcing himself towards land. The body seemed to bend back to the centre of the river, fabric tangling in Laurent’s arms, as if it wished to be returned.

Night air burned cold against Laurent’s skin. His eyes ached. His muscles screamed. He dropped to all fours in the shallow water, body cradled against him, and dragged himself out. When he was finally on land, Laurent set the body down as gently as he could, as if it were a sleeping child.

He gasped and gasped. It felt like he could not get air in his lungs fast enough. Pain sliced through his throat. He was shivering uncontrollably.

White flashed across the horizon, like cracks in the heavens. A few seconds later, there was a distant growl of thunder.

Behind him, the boat bounced slightly against the bank as it returned. Water lapped at Laurent’s bare, muddy feet. Laurent stared back at it. Slime coated every inch of him, slick and disgusting. He felt exhausted.

Moving again was the hardest thing in the world. There were a dozen false starts, Laurent tensing and relaxing as his body or heart changed its mind.

It began to rain.

Light droplets sprinkled over him. He was already soaked, so he only felt them as a feather-like pressure, cold kisses over his slick neck.

Eventually, he stood, weak as a newborn, and lifted the body with him. His back strained. He stumbled, feet tripping over slick mud. The body hung in his arms, limp and long-dead. Laurent was breathing in its scent, old iron and earth, the green life of the river it rested in and the tang of death.

Only a few paces away was the plot of earth Laurent had already dug out. It was a hole eight feet long and three feet wide and in the darkness, no light penetrated into its depths. It looked like a hole through the whole world.

Laurent reached the edge and knelt. His knees slipped on the earth. He braced one arm against the opposite side of the plot.

Slowly, and as gently as he could manage, Laurent eased the body inside. The fabric had shifted, to reveal a commotion of black curls under the darkened fabric. He rested.

It was not a grave fit for a king, let alone a loved one.

Laurent climbed out and retrieved the shovel. He stabbed it into the pile of dirt and poured it over the wrapped body.

It was raining in earnest now. Wind whistled through the trees, shaking the rain. Droplets came like ice pellets, ricocheting across the wet mud.

Laurent dug and dug and dug.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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_I called it, I called it, I called it the moonsea_  
_It is a cruel dream:_  
_At the end of my day your gravity reaches_

  
_Such a long way_

 

_phildel - "Moonsea"_


End file.
